


Wolves of Virginia

by barghest



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, BAMF Will Graham, Creepy Hannibal, Free Will, Gen, HAHA...hahah....i crack myself up w/ my tags sometimes u feel, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Mild Gore, Thinly Veiled Cannibalism, shut up he totally is ok, to be fair he is always creepy so?? pointless tag tbh, written for a booty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another request for a minific - Will Graham runs the most successful biker gang in Virginia. Hannibal Lecter lives in a Winnebago and finds the mysterious biker gang pretty interesting. And Alana is in here somewhere, on a motorbike. That is basically the whole fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves of Virginia

**Author's Note:**

> i know nothing about bikers, i looked at one wikipedia page for this because i wanted to get it to actually fuckdoodily finish and not take me seventy years to write. anyway. whatever. sons of anarchy was an okay anime.

Wolftrap, Virginia, is less of a trap and more of a home for wolves. Wolves dressed in leather jackets that press against their spines and coloured cloth crawling through their tangled hair. Wolves with collars, spiked and rough against rougher fingertips, hugging their throat. They caress these leather strips against weatherbeaten skin, feeling the pulse throbbing in their jugulars surge and leap like a wild dog as they cut through the night. Their steeds are built of scrap metal and torn up anger, wreck-salvaged Harley Davidsons and the teeth of jeans-wearing coyotes. The paint work and skilled mechanical fingers of their pack leader brings these beasts to life, under the creatures that ride him. He treats his own bike as a living, breathing, panting being - and no one would have it any other way.

Sometimes, on wild, wet nights in Baltimore, Hannibal Lecter can hear them howling outside his Winnebago window.

He remembers their canine eyes. He remembers the sun bleached eyeteeth decorating their chests. He remember the first time he met the wolf pack of Virginia in the flesh.

The wind was fierce, he recalls, and his face felt as if it was being scraped away by the chill dragging its nails along his cheeks. He could barely feel the bleed covering his hands as he hauled his dinner back towards his RV - a young buck of maybe nineteen or twenty years, certainly too young to drinking in a bar with such dusky eyelashes and soft mouse-brown hair. Hannibal can still picture the bubbling crust around the youth's lips as his lifeless torso disappeared through the door of the van. If he thinks hard enough, he can even recall the recipe he had planned on using that night. (Thigh meat, lightly stewed with vegetables. Gently toasted white bread. A bloody Bloody Mary for dessert.)

A loud rumble, a metallic growl, is what tensed his shoulders and straightened him into the wind again. The sky was furious, he would tell you, gesturing with his fingers, and the clouds thundered across it - slivers of moonlight spun to earth every so often and one illuminated the raised hackles of the forms that had joined him. His imagination warps a little in his memory and he retrospectively fantasizes they had tails in the darkness - tails and lightning teeth and paws that clutched the handlebars with supernatural ease.

One moon beam passed over the leader's face and seem to hover on his oil slick curls and the ash pits of his eyes. The wind's whistle seemed to die around him, as he settled the worried wolfteeth of the air with his mere presence. A canine skull nestled between his hands on the front of his bike, and Hannibal felt it grinning through the shadows.

"Be careful where you pick up your dinner," when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly quiet and soft, catching Hannibal off guard slightly. He remembers his neck prickling despite himself and his feet shuffling him back against his Winnebago, back pressed against the cold metal. A wolf to his left pushes their hat down further over tousled hair, two pricked ears adorning the brim. "We are letting you off just this once, Lecter. I want his collar back." Hannibal let his eyes slide towards the corpse half in his RV. He had no idea how the gentle-voiced biker knew his name. To this day, he still does not know. Nor does he know why he was given a chance for freedom, especially once his fingers brushed the cold leather of a collar around his dinner's neck. It was tossed in the direction of the lead biker, who caught it, and pulled away into the night without another word.

"FREE WILL" graced the back of the jacket, in silver and bone and staright, that much Hannibal is most sure.

He has seen them since, but only on the news and in the paper and only ever leaving a blazed trail behind them. Sometimes he sits close to his Winnebago window, just to see if he can hear them howl along with the distant thunder of bike engines on the open road.

-

The motorcycle is compact yet athletic, and so is the girl riding it. She introduces herself to Hannibal as Alana Bloom - from Bloom's Mechanics, she jerks a thumb over her shoulder up the pot-holed road behind her - and she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear before she carries on. The way she pats the bike's handle bars is loving, like fondling the ears of a dog.

"You aren't going to join a gang, now, are you?," Alana is pleasant in her manner of speech and Hannibal can see a little of her father in her, a man who has plunged elbow deep into the Winnebago many a time before. He is very good at ignoring blood stains, it has to be noted. Hannibal shakes his head a little, trying to crease his face into a smile to match hers.

"No, I just wish to find out a little about," he dips his head to one side, "one particular group."

Alana's eyebrows arch a little, creeping into her fringe, "oh? You aren't going after the Dogfather, are you."

"The what."

"The Dogfather," her smile widens knowingly to unveil white teeth, like a picket fenceline that she certainly didn't have outside of her gums. "Will Graham and his pack. The Virginia wolves. You told my father and Jack that you had met before, didn't you." Hannibal can only nod, trying to unfold the confusion that is threatening to close up his face. "I thought as much," she is all business again, stepping back to run her hands over the motorcycle in the best manner to display its structure. Dirt speckles its frame, but Hannibal figures that was deliberate - anything too clean would stand out too much as it is. "I know she looks small, but she's got a lot of pulling power and she's fast. And she'll fit in your big-fuck-off van back there," a finger, with immaculate nail polish, points over Hannibal's shoulder towards his RV, "just great."

"I see," Hannibal steps closer tentatively. The bike is still warm until his touch - painted black and red, with an anatomical heart carefully painted just in front of the seat. He presses his fingertips into the metal, feeling the dust shift slightly - the bike almost throbbing beneath his hands, a heart beat thudding through the machine that quickens the more he presses his palms to the metallic surface. It's almost alive. "How fast can it-she go?"

"Fast enough," is Alana's simple answer. She leans her weight on one foot having taken a step back to give him room to check the bike over. "Do you want to try her out?"

Hannibal shakes his head, before digging in his pocket for the Winnebago keys, "I should pay you now, so you can get back." She beams, her teeth sinking into her lip ever so slightly as they appear, and follows him to the door of the RV. Digging around inside, Hannibal is reminded of the food he has left cooking on the stove for lunch, and turns back to the girl outside in the dirt, "could I interest you in something to eat?"

"Ehh," Alana shrugs her shoulders a little, black tendrils curling over the fabric of her jacket, "but my dad might like some. What do you have?"

"Lamb fillet and kidney," he roots around in the cupboards for kitchen foil to parcel up the meal and hands it out to her, along with the cash for the bike, notes crinkling against his fingers. She graciously takes both items, tossing him the keys and inspecting the silver package of food.

"These are really big kidneys."

Hannibal only smiles, maroon eyes half lidded and disguised, "it was a really big lamb."

-

Will Graham's spit scores a clean streak along the dirty metal of his motorcycle's exhaust pipe, which whines quietly as he steadies the engine in his other hand. His curls cling to his forehead, weaving through the concern that edges down the rest of his grimy face. As if lowering its head in a canine display of pain, the bike tilts to one side, wheel turned towards Will as he crouchs low to the ground.

"A cloth, please, Winston," he moves his hand away from the pipe, beckoning a member of the pack to pad forward in scuffed sandy-orange cowboy boots, spurs clinking with every movement. An oiled rag drops into his fingers, curling over the crude pewter ring on his middle finger. It's dented and bent - unable to be removed any more - but the carving of a proud wolf's head on the top is still unmistakable. Will immediately lowers the rag to the exhaust pipe, whispering as if trying to calm a wounded animal, and cleans it, inside and out. The bike stills under his touch and he runs his fingers over the metalwork of the engine, checking for any last faults.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Will rocks back on his heels and fishes a thinly rolled cigarette out of his pocket, lodging it between his teeth long enough for another biker to lean down and light it. Inhaling deeply, he runs a dirty hand through his curls and fiddles with the hem of his jacket. He ignores the flashes of light and shade lurking behind his eyelids, blinking several times in the hopes of clearing them. It's useless, and they lurk stronger still, swimming in front of his eyes as a constant reminder that some people are born with the ability to see incredible things - and some people are born fucking lucky, free of such visions.

At least his bike is fixed. Will may have once been a humble policeman with a hobby in minor mechanics, but at least some parts of that past still served him well, especially with his current machines.

That, and the ability to remove a pair of handcuffs on himself in the space of half a minute.

A low growl interrupts his thoughts and he turns, hackles up at an unfamiliar clash of gasoline and rusted metal envelope his senses. He doesn't recognize it - he knows all of his bikers and their rides, all of his pack and their scents are kept precious deep inside himself. Through the wet earth of Virginia dirt and the dry crackle of white powder in fat transparent bags, he has grown accustomed to the pack of fellow people-dog-wolf-humans that circles around him as the newcomer appoaches. The cigarette in his lips smoulders and the pathways his mind weaves in the depths of his retinas die back a little, letting him stand square, a hand on the knife in his pocket, to greet whoever dares wander into trapped wolves' territory.

The bike is red and black, beneath the dust and mud flecks darkening the hues of the painted metal. The rider pulls to a halt a good twenty feet away, but even in the poor light of a Virginia dusk Will can see - and smell and taste on the air, tongue pushing the bone flavor into the roof of his mouth - the rows of sharpened, almost-human teeth dangling around the stranger's neck. A hand is raised in bemusd greeting and Will tightens his grip on his knife suspiciously, still unsure of what action to take.

After all, bound to the center of the handebars with barbed wire and fearlessness in the face of hungry wolves, is a still bleeding human heart.


End file.
